Old Wang’s cleaning supplies shop sat nestled between a bustling noodle restaurant and a defunct electronics store, its faded sign barely visible in the twilight. The mops, arranged like silent sentinels along the wall, cast elongated shadows that danced whenever a car passed by.
“They’re speaking again,” Old Wang muttered to himself, his wrinkled hands trembling as he arranged a display of dish soap. The yellow bottles gleamed unnaturally bright under the flickering fluorescent lights.
“Of course we’re speaking,” whispered a mop in the corner. “We’ve always been speaking. You humans just rarely listen.”
Old Wang had first noticed the voices three months ago, right after his wife’s passing. At first, he thought grief had finally broken him. But the voices persisted, becoming clearer with each passing day.
A young woman entered the shop, the bell above the door chiming softly. Her heels clicked against the worn linoleum floor as she approached the counter.
“I need something to clean… unusual stains,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The spray bottles on the shelf behind Old Wang began to murmur excitedly. “She’s marked,” they hissed. “Look at her hands.”
Old Wang squinted. Indeed, there was something peculiar about the woman’s hands – they seemed to shimmer, as if covered in invisible ink that caught the light at odd angles.
“What kind of stains?” he asked, though the feather dusters were already rustling their answer.
“Time stains,” they whispered. “She’s been trying to clean up moments she wishes she could forget.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “You… you can hear them too?”
Before Old Wang could respond, the mop from the corner spoke again, its voice carrying clearly through the shop: “Time stains don’t come out with normal cleaners, child. They require something more… personal.”
The woman began to cry, tears falling silently down her cheeks. “My mother… I just want to erase the last things I said to her.”
The cleaning supplies fell silent, their usual chatter replaced by a heavy stillness. Old Wang reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, unremarkable bottle filled with clear liquid.
“This won’t erase the moment,” he said gently, “but it might help you live with it.”
“What is it?” she asked, reaching for the bottle.
“Just water,” the mops chorused. “But water that’s heard a thousand regrets and absorbed a million tears.”
The woman looked at Old Wang questioningly. He shrugged. “Sometimes the best cleaning solution is simply acknowledgment. The stains remain, but we learn to see them differently.”
She left with the bottle clutched to her chest, the bell chiming her departure. Old Wang never saw her again, and the cleaning supplies never mentioned what became of her. But sometimes, on quiet evenings when the shadows grew long, the mops would sing soft lullabies about time and regret, their voices blending with the hum of traffic outside.
And Old Wang would listen, arranging and rearranging his magical cleaning supplies, knowing that some messes weren’t meant to be cleaned away, only understood.